


a hundred and fifty decibels

by pugglemuggle



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Birthday, Brooklyn, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Unresolved Romantic Tension, fireworks are an ambiguous motif, implied PTSD, minor discussion of death, some internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 11:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15169673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pugglemuggle/pseuds/pugglemuggle
Summary: The words left unspoken are always the loudest.(Or, five birthdays they spent side by side, and one birthday they spenttogether.)





	a hundred and fifty decibels

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this whole thing three years ago and then forgot about it completely. So uh. I edited it a little bit and here it is? Better late than never?
> 
> Unbetaed, so any mistakes are my own failure.
> 
> Happy Captain America's Birthday! Stay safe, and protect your little ears. Fireworks are very loud—about 150 decibels, in case you were wondering. ;)

He was born on the morning of July 4th, 1918. His mother, who hadn’t cried once throughout the entire difficult labor, finally felt the tears to begin to fall when she held her newborn son in her arms. She clutched him close, covered her mouth, and sobbed—because here was a boy she would raise alone, without a father, a boy who would never meet the other half of her heart. The baby cried too, because he had just been unceremoniously thrust into a place where lights were too bright and the air was too cold and he had to breathe all on his own. They cried in tandem—neither was prepared for this terrible new world.

 

July 4th, 1929

Steve has just turned ten years old. He and Bucky are sitting on the rooftop of the apartment complex where Steve lives. Someone on their block is lighting off illegal Italian firecrackers, and this is the only place where their view isn’t blocked by the neighbor’s fire escape.

“It ain’t fair,” Bucky says out of nowhere.

“What ain’t fair?” Steve asks.

“You, having your birthday on today.”

Steve pauses, because he’s not sure why Bucky’s saying this, but he doesn’t sound like he’s making a joke.

“...Why ain’t it fair?”

“Well, most people get their birthdays all to themselves, ‘cept the McCarty twins, and they’re always complaining about having to share their parties and presents and all,” Bucky says as the man with the firecrackers lights a fuse and runs back. The street explodes with sound, and they clap their hands to their ears. They wait a couple more moments before Bucky deigns it safe to continue. “But you, Steve,” Bucky says. “You have to share your birthday with the whole damn country. It just ain’t fair, ‘s all I’m saying.”

Steve thinks about that for a moment. A ways away, closer to the dockyard, another person is setting off a new volley of fireworks in reply to the ones on his block. The boom echoes, like it just wants to make sure everyone got a chance to hear it. “It ain’t so bad, actually,” Steve says eventually. “Mam used to say it was a giant birthday party every year that everyone’s invited to, and all the fireworks are for me.”

“Huh,” Bucky grunts. “Well, hate to tell ya, kid, but your mam’s been lying to you.”

“I know that _now_ ,” Steve says indignantly. “I ain’t _stupid_.”

“I just mean I think you’re getting chiseled, is all.”

Steve laughs a little at that. Then, the man down the street lights off another loud firework, a big one, red and blue, and it showers sparks all over the pavement in bright, bold colors. It looks like flowers caught on fire, and no matter what Bucky says, when they’re alone on this rooftop, it does feel a bit like it’s all for him. He smiles and can’t stop.

 

July 4th, 1938

Steve is turning 19 years old. He and Bucky are at a bar, as is everyone else in New York. They’re not supposed to be drinking, but it’s a national holiday, and the police have bigger fish to fry than a couple of lightweight teenagers getting drunk off their asses. So Bucky buys them something alcoholic, and Steve drinks, and he watches Bucky drink his. It only takes him a pint or so to stop pretending that he doesn’t like the way Bucky’s lips curl around the glass, the way his throat moves as he swallows. Steve has to turn away suddenly, after that. He’s already damned, but he doesn’t need to add insult to injury.

Instead, they talk, and they drink, and they talk some more.

“This beer’s piss,” Bucky says eventually.

Steve laughs. “‘Course it is, Bucky, it’s mob beer.”

“Only stuff we can afford,” Bucky says, grinning, and it’s like the sun just came out at half past one in the morning. Steve’s stomach churns, and he feels sick and way, way too sober.

He gets beat up that night—nothing unusual, just a guy who was a little too rude and a little too unapologetic. Bucky picks Steve up off the concrete, like he always does. Steve’s almost glad for the bruise rising up on his arm and the burn of his split lip, because it helps take his mind off the weight of Bucky’s arm over his shoulder, the press of his hip against Steve’s side. He can’t deal with that right now. It was always too much, but it was never _this_ much. Steve feels like he’s drowning.

 

July 4th, 1942

Steve is turning 23, and the United States is at war.

He and Bucky are at the apartment—Steve’s apartment? Bucky’s apartment? He’s not sure anymore. Bucky bought it first, but Bucky’s been staying at a training camp in Jersey for a few months now, and Steve’s name is on the lease. He’s not sure if it’ll ever be _their_ apartment again until they win the war.

“Drink up, Stevie,” Bucky says, handing him a beer and sitting on the threadbare sofa.

“I dunno, Buck, I’m not really in the mood,” Steve replies.

“Oh, c’mon, Steve. This might be the last Fourth of July I’m here for. Drink up.”

Steve freezes, sets down his drink. The air stills. “Don’t joke about that, Bucky.”

“What?” Bucky says, then his eyes widen. “Oh—shit, that’s not what I meant, Steve. I meant here, in New York, before I go. I didn’t...” He pauses. Then he sets down his drink, too. “But say it was. Say it was my last.”

“I don’t wanna talk about that, Buck. It’s not gonna happen.”

“But say it did—”

“It’s _not_ gonna _happen_. I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

“But how do you know it’s not happening, Steve?” Bucky says, his voice raised. “How do you know? You don’t, is how.”

“We are not talking about this.” Steve replies with equal volume. A tense silence falls between them. Outside, behind the closed curtains of the apartment, fireworks are exploding all over Brooklyn, the booming noise echoing in the distance—a warzone.

“I just.... I don’t know what I’d do, if....” Steve says after a while. “I don’t know if I could keep going.”

“You could. Plenty of guys have died already, and their friends are still going to work, fighting in the war.”

“We’re not the same as them, Bucky,” says Steve quietly.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

And he knows Bucky does know, has known for a long time. It’s always on the tip of Steve’s tongue, unspoken in his touch, just behind his eyes whenever he looks at Bucky’s face. But every time Bucky tries to draw it out into the open, Steve pulls back. Things are already complicated enough. Steve doesn’t need to make things worse.

When Steve looks over now, Bucky’s nodding slightly, like he started and just forgot to stop. “That’s right,” Bucky says flatly. “I forgot. Yet another thing I’m not supposed to talk about.” Then he gets up and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks.

“Out,” Bucky answers. “Don’t wait up for me.”

When he leaves, the door slams behind him, hard. The whole apartment rattles.

 

July 4th, 1944

Steve is turning 25, and the commandos are celebrating around a campfire with war stories and a bottle of “liberated” German whiskey. If they’d been at base camp, they’d be celebrating for America—but they’re not. They’re not at base camp, and a third of them aren’t even American, so instead, they’re celebrating Steve. It’s nice, Steve thinks. There’s a war, and they’ll have to fight again tomorrow—kill, perhaps—but for now, Steve finds himself genuinely happy. He could live in this moment. He would, if he could.

Next to him, Bucky starts telling a story. It’s from back in Brooklyn, and Steve knows how it goes, but he loves watching Bucky tell it anyway. When Bucky talks, he uses his whole body, and he grins a certain way that Steve can’t get enough of. His eyes are bright and loud and blue. Steve knows he must look like an idiot, smiling at Bucky like this when he can’t even keep track of the story. When Bucky finishes and Gabe starts talking, Steve is still watching, still smiling. Bucky meets his eyes and arches a quizzical brow. _What,_ Bucky is asking. Steve just shakes his head ( _it’s nothing_ ) but doesn’t stop grinning. Bucky’s eyes turn soft, and that, that almost kills Steve. This is what they are now. It’s far from perfect, but it’s good.

Across the campfire, Morita is looking between them thoughtfully. Steve wonders if he should put a bit more distance between himself and Bucky, give them a couple more inches of plausible deniability, but...he doesn’t _want_ to move away. Instead, he catches Morita’s stare and holds it for a second. The other commando nods before dropping his gaze gently and diverting his attention back to Gabe’s story. For once in his life, that thought of someone knowing doesn’t scare him.

Later, they’re all going to bed on the ground around the dying embers, setting up their bedrolls and trying to figure out which rocks will make them the least sore in the morning. Steve’s just laying down when Bucky turns to him and speaks up.

“Hey, Steve?” he whispers, barely audible.

“Yeah?”

“You now I’d give anything for you not to be here, but...” he pauses, looking for words, “...I’m also so damn glad, Steve.”

“I know what you mean,” Steve replies softly. “Me too. For you, I mean.”

“Don’t go where I can’t follow, alright?” Bucky says. “You can’t cover your six for shit, Rogers. I need to have your back.”

“...Alright.”

“Good,” says Bucky, and then he turns over on his side, facing away from Steve. “G’night, punk.”

“G’night, Buck.”

The air in Europe is hot that July, but the night is clear, and Steve can see stars he never knew were even there.

 

July 4th, 2012

Steve doesn’t know how old he’s turning—26? 94? It doesn’t really matter. No one’s counting, anyway.

He goes out around one o’clock in the afternoon to buy lunch. He wears a hat and sunglasses—like SHIELD told him to—and heads over to a deli a few blocks away. The lady at the counter wishes him a happy fourth.

“Thanks,” he says. Then, belatedly, “You too.”

The first fireworks that night catch him off guard. He jerks around so fast that he almost knocks over the floor lamp, and by the time he realizes what that sound _was_ , his heart is beating too fast and his fists are clenched so tight he wonders if his palms will bruise.

(They won’t. He’ll never bruise again.)

 _It’s my birthday_ , he thinks, but the thought just makes him feel sick. He’s never felt more alone.

 

July 4th, 2018

Steve is turning 32, but the words on the cake say 100. “C’mon, guys,” he says when he sees it sitting prominently on Sam’s kitchen table. “When are you going to drop all the ‘old man’ jokes?”

“Never,” Bucky says on his left.

Steve laughs. “You’re one to talk, Mr. One-Hundred-and-One.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and gestures to his trendy button-up and tight, dark jeans. “Hey, at least I’m making an effort to get with the times.”

“He’s got a point,” Natasha interjects, but Steve’s having a little trouble paying attention, because now he doesn’t want to stop staring at the tight, dark jeans.

“I sure as hell do have a point. Listen to her, Steve. She knows what she’s talking about.”

When Steve finally takes his eyes off Bucky’s legs, the cheeky bastard’s _smirking_ at him, and that just makes everything about three times more distracting. “Sorry,” Steve says, but he doesn’t really mean it.

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky replies with an even wider grin. Then he plants a quick kiss on Steve’s lips, slaps Steve’s ass in broad daylight, and walks over to Sam’s kitchen, shouting, “Anyone else want another beer?”

Steve’s not sure how they got here, but he’s pretty sure it’s worth it. It’s the future, after all. A lot has changed.

And, he thinks, watching Bucky tug open the refrigerator door, swaying a little in place, idly running a hand through his hair, a lot hasn’t changed. He’s alright with that. He kind of loves it, actually.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story, feel free to check out my other Captain America fics here: [ my Captain America fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfandom_ids%5D%5B%5D=586439&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Pugglemuggle). All of them are stucky lol.


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